


angels, addictions, and the morals of having sex with a killer

by orphan_account



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, But hey its heathers what else did you expect, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, I don't know how this works, Like if dubious was a person it's Veronica right now, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Veronica thinks back on things and learns about the dangers of addiction to terrible boys.</p><p>Angels don't make bad choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	angels, addictions, and the morals of having sex with a killer

**Author's Note:**

> Ok go easy on me (by that I mean be gentle on ripping me a new one): not only is this my first AO3 fic, but I'm writing it during an all nighter. Technically, this is just a warm up. However I just finished watching the Heathers movie and I was itching to write something. Plus, ever since I first listened to the musical I've loved the idea of JD calling Veronica an "angel". So... here. Enjoy!

I don't think I've ever believed in angels. I take a good, long look at myself in a mental mirror every time someone calls me an angel and I take a good, long breath every time I re-evaluate my standards. I'm not an angel, I think to myself. Angels don't make bad choices.

I think the last time someone called me an angel was in the moments after killing two footballers, me all trembling lips and gunpowder hands, him all calculated risk and cold arms. As he pulled me through the forest I could hear the crunch of leaves under the boots of some cops that would rule his handywork a suicide pact. Just as suddenly as I was pulled onto my feet, there's a boy in my arms, on my mouth, under my goddamn skin, who looks like sex and murder when he's pinning me against the passenger seat of a station wagon. I realised the moment he called me an angel that he was a horrible addiction of mine. Like all addicts, I'm either going to get consumed or I'm going to quit.

He treated me tenderly - at least by his standards - the next day. He stroked my hair as we lay on his sofa and he told me he loved me for the third time that afternoon. I stayed in his arms: part of it was fear that he would blow my fucking head off, part of it was some sort of unholy reciprocation. Every time he touched me, I shivered and wished for it to be over.

"Veronica," he said.

I mumbled.

"Veronica," he repeated.

I grunted in the affirmative.

"Veronica," he gripped my wrist as he spoke.

I stayed silent as he placed impossibly light kisses on my neck. It was like he was was trying to coax a voice from my throat with his lips. I guess it worked because I croaked out a shallow "I love you too."

He seemed pleased and returned to running his thin, almost but not quite practiced fingers through my hair after pulling me into a kiss. He tasted like ash and chemicals, and smelled of that too. By the time I left, I reeked of him. I almost threw up walking home, and when I finally reached that one place I feel safe, I stayed in the shower and scrubbed until I was raw to get his scent off me.

He called me an angel. He was gentle. He kissed me and made me feel sick. In a way, he was standing with me in the shower, rubbing my skin red and whispering in my ear.

"You're my angel, Veronica. Our love is god."

I can hear him now, feel his hands on my waist as if we were in the station wagon, getting it on to the sound of my guilty conscience. I'm not the killing type, but he is, and having a killer obsessed with you is terrifying.

 

I think I've quit Jason Dean.


End file.
